


The Wolfsbane Alternative

by kodaandorion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John Whump, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-02 17:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14550228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kodaandorion/pseuds/kodaandorion
Summary: 'Aconitum (ækəˈnaɪtəm), commonly known as aconite, monkshood or wolf's bane is a genus of over 250 species of flowering plants belonging to the family Ranunculaceae. Most species are extremely poisonous and must be dealt with very carefully.'An original case that takes place in an AU after Season 2, where John’s relationship with Mary is void and Anderson still has his job. A young girl is found dead and left in a dumpster with only one symptom of death - asphyxiation. An exciting murder case turns darker as John’s life is put in danger, and Sherlock Holmes can only protect his best friend for so long...





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, my mind is distracted by anything new I encounter. I binged the entirety of Sherlock within four days and have since fell in love, becoming quite the obsession. To quench my first for the lack of 2018 content, I decided to write my own story. Of course, it doesn't hold the genius of Moffat or Gatiss that they can truly achieve... but I did my best. I just hope MI6 won't kick down my door for the amount of research I've done on the decomposition of corpses.
> 
> Please enjoy.
> 
> “My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world.” ~ Arthur Conan Doyle

Despite the absolutely ungodly hour, the traffic and vibe of London was by far from dead. By far, in fact, it seemed to resume in its incessant stream; flickering taxi lights welcoming or denying the men on night shift, or gaggle of girls tripping down the street, teetering on the balance somewhere between tipsy and drunk. Some individuals simply cannot withstand the roaring turmoil of the city traffic as cars, buses and taxis alike rambled down roads with the constant blaring lights of advertisements pushing forth their marketing deals in attempt to woo the general public to consume in their products. The buzz of the mindless chatter was what was most aggravating of all – _pointless_ chatter at that: gossip, giggling, mindless babbling and pratting about pathetic, and quite frankly pitiful, conversation topics that did not expand the mind or make decisions on the _real_ important matters.

The point that Mycroft Holmes was trying to make to himself was that his office was really quite comfortable.

The man himself, the eldest of the Holmes siblings, was intimidating in his own manner. The shortening crop of his dark hair was neatly combed back and the creases on his forehead furrowed in the depths of his thoughts. There was a slight growth of a pot belly, one that just refused to vanish despite his work-out training and diet but it didn’t deter him very much. Poised in his windowless office, he sat with his chin resting on his knuckles, eyes closed. You would have thought he was asleep.

Mycroft had developed many epithets over the years. Tubby was one of them, as a child – a ceaseless nickname given by Sherlock and Redbeard in his youth (he flicked his head slightly; Mycroft disliked thinking of Redbeard, as if the blame was on his shoulders). Another one was Ice Man, one that was additionally unpopular with the man yet often echoed in his brain like a continuous insult. It was justified, admittedly – it matched with his opinions and morals, which he had tried to force-feed to his little brother for many years but simply ended up fruitless.

His favourite handle so far was “the British Government”. His confidence shone with this one, pleased to actually have gotten somewhere in life as a Holmes – as if you could call being a private detective a career! The man didn’t even get paid! That poor doctor, trying to pay the rent for himself… but that was beside the point. Almost immediately after the incident with Eurus and Redbeard, Mycroft had decided to assume the weight of the responsible Holmes in the family. It was good he did too, because his drug-fuelled fool of a brother wouldn’t be able to. Despite the fact he had both the title of the family name and the entirety of the United Kingdom on his shoulders, he did his utmost to never waver or show a sign of weakness. One false move and it all comes crashing down.

Honestly, he wonders why they don’t just scrap the Parliament and let one person make the choices others can’t make. Why negotiate when you can just decide?

Mycroft’s thoughts were disturbed by the calling of his phone, which rattled beside him, but the man made no physical movement to display any sign of being startled. Instead, after a couple of rings, his eyes lazily flicked open and travelled to the screen which glowed the caller’s ID:

_Sherlock._

Rather surprised, Mycroft picked up the phone and answered it, raising it to his ear and gazing at the door to his office, as if expecting the caller to burst through the door at that moment.

“Sherlock, brother dear,” Mycroft spoke, his voice thick with a sort of condescending pleasantries, as if mocking the happy women who would greet friends on the phone with raspy giggles, “What a surprise, I didn’t expect _you_ of all people to do social calls.”

“Certainly, Mycroft,” came the response from the other end of the phone, “That’s more Mrs Hudson’s thing, don’t you think?”

The once peaceful and relaxed atmosphere that Mycroft had been indulging in had evaporated, replaced by a peculiar tense feeling. It was as if two superpowers were desperate to break a truce – each word carefully hand-picked to somehow be simultaneously snarky and cold, yet pleasant.

Really. It was like sitting at a meeting between a United States and Russian representative. A derisble and unnecessary feud (and a waste of his bloody time).

“Agreed. What’s the matter this time then? I do hope you haven’t been dabbling in your ‘medications’ again.”

“I haven’t, but thank you for the suggestion, _brother dear._ I was calling about the cameras.”

“What cameras?” Mycroft asked innocently. For a brief second, he felt childlike again, as if trying to hide his mischief from his elderly figures or teasing his younger brother- but he shook off the feeling quickly.

“Don’t be daft, Mycroft, you _know_ what cameras,” Sherlock continued crossly, “I can see them clear as day, and it’ll be a matter of time before John does too.”

Deciding not to hide the truth no longer, Mycroft gave a sigh and leaned back in his chair, though maintaining his high and professional stature. Even in the absence of the audience, he did his best to scare and intimidate.

“I was merely _worried_ , little brother. I only wanted to keep an eye on you, in case you put yourself in any danger.”

“I put myself in danger all the time – what do you think I do for a living?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Mycroft replied, but pressed on before Sherlock could snap back a retort, “I mean put _yourself_ at harm. I… worry about you.”

“You know perfectly well if I put myself at harm then John would notify you immediately.”

“I would rather know sooner than immediately,” Mycroft replied, his tone starting to shift rather cool, “And I meant to have a word with you about Doctor Watson.”

Mycroft paused, awaiting an aggravated response for daring to mention his end with such an unfriendly tone; he was not disappointed, as the reply came after a few seconds of silence. “If you’re going to bring up the fact that I shouldn’t _entertain_ myself with the company of John Watson, as you so bluntly like to put it-”

“Not at all, your business is your business.” Strictly untrue, Mycroft had tabs on John almost constantly, almost as much as Sherlock at this point – though admittedly he only preferred to intervene when he was certain it was a 100% dire situation, which thankfully was rarely (the truth was, Sherlock could handle himself - when it came to a case, that is. John was more talented in that form, however.) “I merely heed a warning.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock’s reply was dangerous and warning, but did not remotely concern Mycroft.

“I have told you many times before, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage… people die, hearts are broken, trust is destroyed and love is often not worth the trouble. If you genuinely believe that John Watson is more good for you than bad, then by all means… resume your relationship together. But love is a weakness, brother dear, and one day it will ultimately destroy you… I pray it will not be John Watson who does it to you.”

He finished and the silence stretched on for a moment. Then Sherlock replied, his voice colder than before, slightly tense, “John Watson will never be a burden on me, nor a hindrance. I don’t appreciate you suggesting that. I won’t let go of him.”

“I had a suspicion you would say that.”

“I won’t let go of him,” Sherlock repeated, and added a little more weakly, “I can’t let go of him, Mycroft. I just…. can’t.”

The silence stretched on, and Mycroft struggled for a response. Sherlock was becoming more and more… _human_ with each day passing, and it was an internal debate within Mycroft whether this was a positive thing or not. He always believed that sentiment did not suit the Holmes trio, but it was starting to occur to Mycroft that maybe it did suit Sherlock after all. Clearly, John meant a lot to Sherlock. Maybe too much, in fact.

“The way you often treat him, I’m occasionally inclined to believe otherwise,” Mycroft said, with an air of coldness that even surprised himself.

Silence.

“But truthfully - sometimes I think you need John more than John needs you,” he added.

Again, there was no response from the end of the line, but Mycroft could almost feel Sherlock’s desperation. It pained him. He dragged out an outbreath of air. “The cameras will be turned off tonight and I will send someone to remove them.”

“… Thank you.”

“Not at all, little brother,” Mycroft replied, with a slight twist of a smile. He ended the call, placing the phone on his desk and outwardly sighing.

“You do worry me, Sherlock Holmes,” he said, turning to the tablet in front of him. The black-and-white CCTV flickered as Sherlock himself pocketed his phone, turning his gaze up to the camera and crossing his brow impatiently. Mycroft started deactivating the cameras one by one, almost painfully slowly; he was being stripped of reassurance as each one blackened out. The last one remained in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, where a grey-haired man was dozing on the couch.

“And in truth,” Mycroft confessed quietly, “You do too, Doctor John Watson.”

The screen flickered to black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the investigation underway, Sherlock and John work together to crack the case. However, there's a strange bitterness in John's emotions that even he himself can't define. What is getting John so worked up? And will it affect the case, or even his relationship with Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to squeeze in this chapter before I go on holiday. I have been very overworked from college, hence the gap of time between chapters. I don't even have the next chapter written yet... but it'll come.

It was John who picked out their spot for lunch - a rather small and newly-opened Japanese restaurant. The two preferred their Chinese takeaway, but John felt it might be nice to branch out a little. It only had two people on the counter who stuck their noodles in a cardboard box and pointed to them to the benches available to sit at. But it was cheap at least, and not too bad either, he thought as he picked at the noodles and tried to eat them without the noodles flicking up his nose. Sherlock wasn’t eating his much, but when did he?

“So,” Sherlock said, after a while of companionable silence, “What did you find out?”

John swallowed his food, placing down the plastic fork. “The girl’s name was Suzi. Her description matched up with Lestrade’s recount - too drunk to remember Kelly had gone out.” He bit his lip for half a second to recount what she had said, trying to strike out the garble of pleading to prove her innocence. “She said the girl had gone bathroom and came out looking worried about something.”

“Did she say what?” Sherlock asked, his fingertips pressed together.

John glanced up to Sherlock, noticing that the man wasn’t looking directly to John but his eyes were closed. “No… she just made an excuse, said she threw up in the toilet. Then she said she was going out for a smoke and that was the last time they saw her.”

“And she specifically stated that the woman was going out to smoke?” Sherlock asked, eyes still shut.

John rustled a little in his chair. “Yes.”

“Ah,” he said, and opened his eyes to stare at John. His eyes were tingling with excitement, a slight twitch of a smirk on his lips, “How interesting.”

“Alright,” John said, leaning forward, “So clearly something about her being a smoker is interesting.”

“That’s the most interesting part, John, because she _wasn’t_ a smoker.”

John blinked a few times, then his forehead creased to think. After a moment, he said, “There… were no physical signs. Right?”

“Exactly.” The detective gave a twitch of a smile, surprisingly rather genuinely, and John felt rather proud of himself. “Fingernails were clear, no yellow - same with the teeth, well-brushed, not a spot of brown or yellow. Probably get lungs looked at, too, and obviously ask her parents.”

“Her parents? We’re going to see them?”

“Of course.”

John nodded, and stuck into his noodles again. “Okay. Did you find anything else?”

“A little. Coat was slightly damp but also dirty, but only at an angle on her back and arm, so it was from the damp trash in the bin she was placed in - it’s been raining quite a lot these past few days all over London, so why is her coat dry? Answer: the body’s been inside for a week, hence why it’s not remotely wet. No jewellery present but it's been there - there's slightly pink indents on her fingers from where it's been. Notice I said pink and not green - cheap jewellery gives you green markings from a chemical reaction on your skin and the metal. So, expensive jewellery then - but why would she take it off to, supposedly, have a cigarette? Not unless someone _else_ took it - sold it on, made a profit. So my conclusion from the minimal evidence left on the scene: the person from last night is not the same body we've found.”

John looked puzzled at this last sentence, then drew himself together. “Alright. So - the girl we found has probably died from… drug poisoning…?”

“There was an indent on her nape from a needle puncture. Clearly, someone else administered it and likely in surprise, too. Recent puncture but not fresh.”

“And whatever was in that drug killed her… so she was poisoned by - what did you call it? Wolfs…”

“Wolfsbane. Very fast acting poison, but comes in the form of a flower. Just touching it can cause problems.”

 _Certainly not a gardening flower I'll get into when I retire,_ John thought. _If I retire._ The addition was a little macabre but genuine - he'd probably get killed in this line of work.

But John was still puzzled. “So the smoking - the coat - the jewellery. What's all that mean?”

“I'm saying we're not just dealing with a murder case, John, but also a missing persons case.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, a little incredulous. This was a bit of a leap. The evidence sort of made sense, especially the part about smoking…

“But it's just a theory right now,” Sherlock replied a little bitterly, leaning back and stabbing a tender bit of chicken with a chopstick, “We need more evidence.”

“That girl did mention that Kelly was acting a little different,” John said suddenly, “That she was a bit more sociable. But, Sherlock, I'm still not quite following you - how is she missing? She was here yesterday.”

“Ah, but was she? If she was out and about, her hair and clothes would be soaked but they're only damp. And why would someone step out to smoke if they don't smoke? Because maybe they don't - but their _actor_ does.”

“Actor?” John set down his fork again, “You're saying - she was _replaced?_ ”

“Finally, John, you're starting to _see._ The girl has been replaced by someone and she - that's to say, Original Kelly - was a killed a week ago by her replacement. And since then she's been leading Kelly’s life - but obviously missed out on details. Was more sociable than she reckoned the original girl was, and her smoking - the replacement had a smoking habit she couldn't break, just _had_ to step out and have a cigarette. But now Kelly’s body has turned up for us to find on purpose - why? Why did the replacement back out? And why show it off to the world, not even bothering to try frame it as a suicide?”

Sherlock looked up from his spiel to see his companion listening intently, idly devouring his food. It was a little nice, admittedly, to see his words actually be listened to. But his heart sank a little more as John said, with noodles still in his cheeks, “But it's just a theory right now.”

“Yes. Like I said… we need more evidence. We’ll talk to the parents, maybe they can give us something.”

“Alright,” John said, but added as Sherlock made to stand: “But eat your noodles, first. That cost me £4 and God knows I hate wasting food.”

##### *

A three-story building with small to medium sized rooms, with the curtains firmly drawn and the lights off. That was the state of the McKenzie house as Sherlock and John were led into the sitting room by the mother’s brother. The McKenzie parents themselves were huddled close on the sofa, arms linked around each other and gripping their hands tightly. The mother looked like she’d been weeping for hours on end, and still the tracks of her tears sustained on her pink face. An empty coffee mug in front of the father laid abandoned, lukewarm and half-empty.

John nudged Sherlock’s arm a little. _Let me take this one._ Sherlock performed weakly in front of the grieving.

“Mr and Mrs McKenzie?” John asked solemnly, and gave a slight bow of the head, “I am so sorry to hear about your daughter… truly.”

The mother broke down into fruitlessly suppressed sobs once again, and the father pulled the woman tight to his side, grimacing.

“Thank you, thank you,” the woman whispered, her voice wavering in pitch, “It’s… so hard… so many people talking to us…”

“But we need it done,” Mr McKenzie answered, directing to both the duo and his wife, “If you’re here on the case, Mr Holmes, then I really think you’ll be able to help us…”

“Of course I will,” Sherlock replied. His hands were behind his back, his silvery eyes gazing between the pair.

“Can you tell us what happened the night you last saw her?” John asked.

The mother rose to speak but dissolved into tears again; John could practically feel Sherlock roll his eyes behind their backs. Disapproving, John reached over and offered a tissue box to the woman, who gratefully accepted it.

Mr McKenzie cleared his own heavy throat. “I mean, i-it was just a normal night. We had dinner together, some homemade pizza… then half hour after dinner, she said she was off out to a party and she’d be home late. Then she left… and that was the last we ever heard of her…”

“But you didn’t keep in contact with her throughout the night?” Sherlock asked, his baritone voice echoing across the room, “A protective mother surely would.”

Mrs McKenzie shook her head and managed to choke out, “S-She’s an adult… we trusted her to come home… safe…” Her body shuddered and she breathed out, “Was that a mistake?"

“No,” John replied, surprisingly coolly, “Like you say, she’s an adult, she _is_ able to look after herself.”

“We’d have called her in the morning if she hadn’t come back-”

“Not your fault,” John assured again, a hint of firmness in his voice.

Oddly surprised at the firmness in John’s attitude, Sherlock’s gaze slid very momentarily, perhaps just within the slight space of half a second, to John. This man seemed to be full of small surprises today - perhaps he was not telling him something? Or something was persisting the man? But now was not the time to linger - Sherlock knew John was fully capable of dealing with whatever internal struggle might be happening.

“Going back to your dead daughter,” Sherlock proclaimed a little loudly, and John threw the man a cold look as the mother quietly starting weeping again, “I have a few questions. Was your daughter a smoker?”

The mother’s retched gasp in surprise made Sherlock have to resist the urge to roll his eyes, but luckily it was the male who answered defiantly. “No. She’s had no past experience in smoking - not in any form of drugs, asides drinking. Nobody in this house smokes.”

 _Not for long,_ Sherlock thought to himself, flickering a glance at the grief-stricken woman, but the disdainful look John was occasionally hurling at him assured him not to say this aloud. He made to speak, but the mother interrupted him: “Why is that relevant?”

“Everything I ask in an investigation is relevant,” Sherlock said, his voice smooth and confident, “Everyone’s minds are so wrung by the facts in front of their nose that they miss out on the tiny yet most important details that could resolve a case in a heartbeat. That is why I am here - to _observe_ when others are too out of their depth to. Mr and Mrs McKenzie, over the past seven days, has your daughter been in any way different? Any personality changes - hobbies - any surprising changes in the slightest?”

The married couple exchanged confused glances, as if checking with each other, and John could almost read the answer before it parted from their lips. “No,” the man replied, “No - nothing noticeable…”

“She was just… just Kelly,” the woman sniffled.

“Do you have any pictures of her?” Sherlock asked, “Ones from the last _week._ ”

The woman gulped shakily. “Oh, well… she’s always taking photos on her phone, i-it’s on the kitchen side… oh, what’s the word for it - taking pictures of herself, all dressed up and p-pretty…”

But Sherlock had gone into the kitchen, and John returned the crying woman with a sympathetic smile before following him. The kitchen was of smooth marble, connected to a dining room; Sherlock was leaning against the counter of the kitchen island, holding an iPhone with a pink plastic case.

“Her phone was found just outside the club, according to the files” Sherlock said, not turning to greet John as he entered, “Someone handed it in as lost property and it was identified as it was handed in a few minutes after the girl left - a connection, obviously, made by me. That and the fact she is a subject in her lockscreen along with other friends.”

“She’s already got files?” John asked, leaning against the counter next to Sherlock. He noticed her phone was unlocked. “Someone’s up to date on paperwork. How did you know her password?”

“Simple. New phone. Brand new phone, in fact - not a single scratch mark in sight, not on the charger or headphone jack, so it’s not secondhand either - needed a password upon set-up, first thing people can think of? Birthday. Birthday was in her files. Just a matter of which order it is - practically unlocked it first-try.”

“Practically.” But Sherlock ignored John’s comment, and has already swiped onto the photos. He practically thrust the phone to John. “Here, take a look. Are there any differences you notice compared to her and the body?”

John squinted to gaze a the picture. From a mere glance at the photo and what he could recall of the body, they were identical. But of course it had to be tiny details that were off…

“Yeah,” John said, “Fingernails have a yellow tinge to them… and her teeth. So you were right about the smoking part.”

“Yes, yes - what else?”

“I… no, I don’t know.”

“Her eyes, John. They’re blue.”

“And?”

“The body was blue, too - but they were heterochromatic. The eyes on the body had a silver of green, just on the right. Barely noticeable at a glance. The girl here has pure blue eyes - in fact, maybe a little _too_ pure, don’t you think? They don’t exactly match up with the body.”

“So… contacts?” John suggested.

“Just what I’m thinking.” He locked the phone, sticking it in his pocket. “We’ll need to show this to Lestrade when I show my theory… but we’ll need more evidence. Come on.”

With a billow of fabric, he stepped back into the living room but did not trespass in further than the door. “We’re almost done here,” Sherlock said, “I’d like to see her bedroom last. Please, refrain from that expression - I know what I’m doing.”

Kelly’s bedroom matched up to the quality of the rest of the house. With a golden hue that mimicked the dead girl’s hair colour, the room was crammed with quite a lot of books and papers, likely studying for exams. Her bed was laid out nicely, and a guitar was propped up on a stand in the corner of the room. Sherlock swept around, investigating the desks and looking through the books.

“And… what exactly are we looking for?” John asked, looking around the room.

“I’ve found what I’m looking for,” Sherlock replied, and swept up to stand tall and face John, “More evidence. First of all - the girls handwriting. Look at this.”

John came over to one of the notebooks the girl had been studying out of. Both pages were flooded with writing, certain lines and key-words highlighted. John squinted at the writing. If he looked carefully…

“Well, they’ve done their best to mimic it,” John said, “But it’s definitely a bit different. Doesn’t curl her y’s the same way… and writes her ampersands differently, too.”

“Not just that,” Sherlock said, “John, as I have said before - you may not be the most luminous yourself but you are an excellent conductor.”

“Yeah, bloody thanks for that.” 

Ignoring this, he said, “You handed over a tissue to the mother, she took it with her right hand. The father’s coffee - titled to his right to take with his right hand. The dead body had calluses on her right fingers from her guitar, and her handwriting is also right-handed because the page didn’t smudge when writing on ink. On her lockscreen, she was taking a picture with her right hand.”

“Okay, okay - she’s right-handed. So?”

“So - the replacement is _left-handed._ Look around the room: handwriting on the notebook smudged because she’s left-handed - empty tea-mug titled to her left to pick up with her left hand - pens on the desk that were abandoned there were on her left, but the pencil holder is on the right, though tilted to the left when moved to reach with her left hand. Power sockets - plug on the left but more scratches on the right from more usage. People look but don’t observe, that’s my problem with Scotland Yard and why they come to me.”

Finishing in his spiel, Sherlock glanced to look at John. The soldier sniffed and gave a nod, rolling back his shoulders. “Bloody brilliant.”

“... it’s not brilliant, it’s just observation.”

“And that’s about as modest as you’ll get. What’s our plan now?”

Sherlock’s gaze flickered to glance out the glass pane of the doors leading out into the back garden where the sun was now steadily lowering, casting a deep golden glow filtering through the fabric of the cream curtain. Sherlock’s clever eyes reflected the deep orange of the sunset, then turned back to face John again.

“I need to think things over,” he concluded, “We’ll go back to Baker Street.”

John nodded in affirmation. “I’ll follow.”

*

The warmth of the sun had settled into twilight by the time the pair returned to 221b Baker Street. Sherlock had ditched John in the cab, leaving the army doctor to pay the fare ( _much too expensive these days,_ he bitterly thought as he handed over the money and clambered out of the back seat). By the time he had trudged up the stairs and into the living room, Sherlock had already retired onto the sofa, fingertips gently pressed together and eyes closed. He had his nicotine patches - yes, _patches_ as a plural - on, and seemed too deep in his thoughts to acknowledge John.

John did not bother to disturb the man. It gave him time to at least reflect on the strange feeling that was bubbling up in his gut again. He sat himself down on his favourite seat, stretching out his legs and aching knees.

He did not understand why he felt mad at Sherlock.

No, jumping too far there. The feeling he was experiencing wasn’t quite anger. He was not angry at Sherlock, it wasn’t as festered as that. He recollected his emotions when he first encountered Sherlock after he returned from his “trip”. After he rose from the dead.

_Shock. It’s a ghost. A walking ghost. This can’t be real. He’s dreaming. It’s another nightmare, another goddamn nightmare, another nightmare where he walks through the front door and tells John he’s alive but when he turns round there will be blood leaking out of the back of his head and all over his face and suddenly he’ll be back on the roof of St. Barts Hospital and he’ll fall - gracefully - an angel lost his wings - Lucifer plunging from the skies and into Hell - those eyes back to haunt him, those ghostly silver eyes -_

_The tinkling of china and a scream of absolute terror - the feeling of raw skin and bone against his knuckle - a yell of pain and surprise - and burning feeling in his legs as he ran, and ran and ran and ran and ran -_

John snapped his eyes shut for a moment, then breathed in. John Watson was a soldier and he knew better than to let dark thoughts like this infect his mindspace. There was no time to relish in the past voluntary. Focus on the present.

Irritation. _That_ was it… right? A form of irritation. John was irritated at the detective. Irritated… impatient… mildly aggravated. Yes, that was it. But _why?_

Perhaps it was envy. John had always been amazed at the consulting detective’s profound ability to analyze and decipher at a mere glance, to state the impossible with a sense of casuality, to read into someone’s life with a flicker of a glimpse from head to toe. Perhaps it was irritation at the man’s attitude, he was always so _rude_ to everyone - swatting away opinions that did not match his own, ignoring ideas that were not a part of his ideal code and motto. Perhaps it was the need for attention - it was always Sherlock this, Sherlock that, we all love Sherlock Holmes, thanks for the help Sherlock Holmes, you’re our hero Sherlock Holmes, your website is amazing Sherlock Holmes…

It was probably the latter. Who had been the one to find out the “pink lady’s” phone was right outside Baker Street? Who had been the one to gun down the cabbie when Sherlock’s life was on the line? Who had helped Sherlock when he was attacked at the circus? Who had been the one to actually find the enemy - admittedly, not in the best way by being captured - but he did it! Had he not shot down the hound who tried to kill Sherlock and Lestrade? Was it not him who--

“You look angry.”

The rant exploding in his head, that had slowly been getting more aggressive, was abruptly cut off by the deep, baritone voice. John’s head flicked over to where Sherlock was lying, who had not moved position but simply turned his head to look over. John shuffled in his spot, not uncomfortably but rather defiantly, before replying: “Figure that out well enough, huh?”

“Are you angry… at me?”

John did not reply. He exhaled slowly and tapped his foot, staring down at the floor. Then he responded, “Reckon this is going to be another unsolved case then?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock drawled, his voice almost devoid of feeling, “Why, I think it'll be solved before dawn.”

“Of course you do.”

“So you _are_ angry at me.”

“I’m not,” he said, pushing himself off his chair, “I’m… just tired.”

“John, please. I commend you for your work in gun combat, general intelligence-”

“ _General_ intelli-”

“- and medical care, but you are not the greatest liar. You’re forgetting who I am, John.”

“And I think you’re forgetting who _I_ am,” John retorted, the tone of his voice low but starting to slowly increase in volume, “I’m not your follower - I’m not some background character - I’m _there,_ I’ve always _been_ there, and sometimes I wonder if you - or anyone else, for that matter - can even _see_ me.”

Sherlock blinked with some puzzlement, intrigued and confused by the phrasing of his words. “John, I… what are you saying? That you’re irrelevant to me?”

“Sometimes I feel like I might as well be,” John replied bitterly. In truth, he was half-wishing he hadn’t brought this up. He wanted out of this place right now - away from that bloody idiot, gazing at him like a confused child -

“Of-Of course you’re not,” Sherlock stuttered, “But… you know well enough what my temperament is like - you know I’m not one for praise and thanks, but -”

“But your ego is too high to actually do it? Because the Mighty Sherlock Holmes’s head is far too high up his arse to consider me - _me,_ who was there for you when even _bloody_ Scotland Yard turned against you?!”

“No - I mean - no, that’s - John -”

Ignoring his stutters, John turned on his heel and marched out the door, leaving Sherlock sitting upright on the sofa. Slamming the door behind him, he headed down the stairs with his blood pumping. He barely noticed Mrs Hudson, who had been busying herself in the hallway.

“Had another argument, have we?” She tittered.

“Yeah,” he managed to cough out, “Just going for a walk.”

John hardly heard her reply as he donned his coat and walked out. He knew Sherlock was probably standing outside the window, the curtain slightly drawn back to watch John march across the street in an entirely random direction. He was also fully aware of the chances Sherlock would ring up his brother and request someone watch him on the cameras - the other side of the chances was that Mycroft was already doing it without Sherlock’s asking.

As if he cared. So long as he didn’t have to stare Sherlock in the face right now…

But as he walked, with the damp pavements and roads softly glowing in the puddles from the lampposts glaring white lights, his anger settled into a form of depression and shame. John didn’t really want to have kicked up a fuss. He knew when he signed up for this mess that he wasn’t to expect a lot of praise for heroic deeds or good knowledge. Had he not had the same treatment in the army? He joined for the adrenaline to flow through his veins, the excitement and fear of knowing any corner could be his meeting with death, the thrill of skin against bone, the recoil of a gun in his hand, the pinging noise of the bullets as they rattled off brick walls and sand under his army boots -

His thoughts were interrupted, once again, but this time not by Sherlock. Instead, it was by a woman standing around the corner, a phone to hear ear and the locks of a gold-brown hair flowing in a bob, with the ash of a half-smoked cigarette building up on the end of the stub.

How the hell could Kelly McKenzie, the dead girl from the dumpster, be _there?!_

Ah, of course - Sherlock was right. A client.

John hardly had time to make his first move before realizing he was, apparently, playing the black pieces of the chess game. The girl spotted him, dropped her unfinished cigarette onto the pavement and walked away without stomping it out, the phone still pressed to her ear. John followed, digging out his own phone from his pocket and hurriedly dialling.

The woman was quick, he’d give her that. He was forced into a light jog as he hurried to meet her, turning a corner of a street.

The phone picked up. “Sherlock?” John said, “She’s here - you were right, it’s got to be replacements - the girl’s here. Alive.”

“Where?”

“Er - just outside a pub, _Speckled Hen_ , I-I can’t see a street sign-

He had turned a corner into an alleyway, and he suddenly felt his legs give way as he tripped. Falling to the wet pavement beneath him, his chin slammed against the concrete and the wind was momentarily knocked out of him. John saw his phone clatter from his hand, but as he reached out to snatch it back a foot kicked it away. Not _his_ foot. And then another foot pressed down on the top of his back, just near his nape, holding him down.

Well, this wasn’t going to turn out good.

The girl herself, which he decided to dub The Client, was still on the phone. But she finished up before he could tune into the conversation, then turned. John knew instantly this was not the real Kelly - that was to say, the deceased corpse he met earlier in an alleyway in a different part of London. Her height was a bit different, her posture, her weight a little thinner… and, of course, she was a smoker. Was her eye color different? It was too dark to tell.

“John Watson, right?” The girl said. Her voice wasn’t London, “Listen - we appreciate your concern, but you and your boyfriend are toeing a line into a world that you shouldn’t be messing with.”

“For God’s sake,” John replied irritably, not really scared by her statement but rather annoyed instead, “I’m not _gay._ He’s not my boyfriend.”

The girl ignored his statement as a car rolled up behind her. John squinted - _BMW, Series 6 Gran Turismo, black with tinted windows._

“I’ll be just round the corner,” she said, and John realized she was probably talking to whoever’s foot was crushing his back, “Deal with him. I can’t have witnesses. Sorry, Doctor Watson..” The passenger door opened, and she clambered into the seat without sparing a second look at John, slammed the door and the car rumbled away down the street.

John didn’t have the chance to try glance at the drivers licence, because someone had already yanked the scruff of his neck and hauled him to his feet. John was slammed into a brick wall and felt his head spin before being thrown back onto the floor. He did his best to regain his senses as his attackers started conversation.

“What’s your thoughts?” Said one of the voices. Deep, gravelly, ex-smoker.

“Kick him about a bit,” his partner replied - less gravelly, new smoker, “That’ll please her.”

“Not if I can help it,” John said, clambering uneasily onto his feet.

One of the men dived in for a right hook, but John weaved round and hurled his own. His fist connected with the man’s nose and felt the bone shatter; a spurt of blood shot from the man’s nostril, flowing into his lips and between John’s knuckles. The ex-army soldier lunged forward, aiming for the throat, but was intercepted by his gravelly-voiced friend.

This one was a fighter and certainly knew what he was doing. John was instantly winded with a harsh knee to the stomach then felt a blow to the back of his legs, finding himself tipped over and on the ground. The ground was _never_ an ideal spot in a brawl, especially if the other attackers were on their feet and hurling kick after kick. Everytime John tried getting up, he’d felt a hefty _whump_ to the face and sending him sprawling back on the pavement. There was very small chances of getting back up; best he could do was protect his head, face and throat and waiting for the blows to pass.

In all truth, this was a bit not good.

But the tables turned, and the grunting from the men kicking him turned into yells. Someone else had arrived, apparently, and John managed to drag himself away from the scuffle to look up. Of course it was Sherlock - he knew where he was; after all, and Sherlock had not disconnected from the line.

Sherlock jumped back from an attempted kick, slamming one of the attackers into the wall. John nearly winced as the man’s skull crashed into the brick wall with a sickening crack and slumped, clutching the back of his head in a daze. The detective sprang back once again as the other crony swung a left punch, but Sherlock was quicker - he twisted the man's arm around his back, spinning round like some kind of ballet dancer; Sherlock thrust his elbow pit into the man’s throat and kicked at the nice, sensitive part of his legs - below the thigh, above the calf.

 _Apply basic physics into your combat,_ Sherlock’s thought process was, _One force moves one direction, another force goes the other. The result is an imbalance of weight, with the outcome being hurled to the ground on their back._

Once the final attacker had been left semi-conscious on the ground, Sherlock straightened himself and adjusted his scarf. Well, at least there was some excitement to his night. Maybe he should ask John to look for fights more often.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, stepping over to reach John, who was leaning against the wall trying to regain his breath.

“Yeah,” he breathed, tilting his head back and puffing out air, “Y-Yeah - I’m alright.”

“Are you sure?” The man’s eyes narrowed firmly, crouching down to survey his friend, “They kicked you quite a bit, if I had been sooner -”

“I don’t know - what happened,” John breathed, “Shit, Sherlock - the girl was here. The dead girl. But you’re right - she must be a replacement, she was smoking, and,” he paused, drawing out a breath of air. _Bloody hell, my ribs._ “Two of them at once was just…”

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock replied, digging an arm underneath John’s armpit and helping him to his feet, “It’s alright. Just catch your breath. We’re going back home. If a constable catches us, you’re drunk, alright? John? John, can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, I can,” he replied, haven paused to try catch air.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“Just some bruising and abrasions. Mostly to the ribs. Let’s go, already, it’s bloody freezing out.”

“Reevaluate your priorities, John.”

John couldn’t help snicker a bit, which made his ribs ache, and they set at a steady pace with arms slung around each other; it really looked like Sherlock was just carrying a drunk buddy home - John was stumbling over his feet occasionally and looked a little dazed. Sherlock hoped it was just part of the act.

The night air had turned chilly, and their hot breaths exhaled out in front of them as wisps of a thin steam. The lamp posts above them glowed, and the distant hum of traffic from the main street was a comforting buzz in the background - it seemed almost faraway, as if stepping into it would lead to an entire different world on its own. Instead, the pair remained in the quiet empty streets, only with the rare drive-by of a passing taxi or an occasional stranger out late who would hastily cross the street upon their approach. Not that Sherlock or John really cared.

“Sorry,” John muttered, his head low.

Sherlock paused, just for a beat, before replying, “What for?”

“Yelling at you. Telling you a pompous prick.”

“Because I am.”

The pair snickered for a moment. “Yeah, you are,” John agreed, “An obnoxious, self-centered ass-”

“Oh, please, John - you flatter me.”

They snickered again, a little more enthusiastically. “Don’t make me laugh, you prick, it hurts my ribs.”

“Then don’t laugh!”

But John couldn’t help it, and neither could Sherlock.

Once the snickering died down, they were momentarily quiet for a while, in a comfortable companionable silence, now quickly approaching the street sign for Baker Street.

“I didn’t finish my sentence earlier, John.”

“Hm?” John replied, admittedly almost fearing the next reply.

Sherlock cleared his throat, not quite looking at John. “I’m not one for giving praise or gratefulness, John… but it doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.

Now even John was avoiding eye-contact.

“You are a… valuable asset to me,” Sherlock continued, carefully picking each word with precision and care, “In this line of work, I would have been dead or captured or worse many times if you had not been by my side. I sincerely regret what you’ve been through since I left for two years - it is my fault. But I can’t regret it, John, because I did it for you.

John looked up at his friend as they approached the door of 221b, still slung over his shoulder, and Sherlock looked back. Their eyes met.

“But,” Sherlock finished, his baritone voice quiet, “That is not a story for tonight. Maybe another night, John. I will explain it to you… not tonight, though.”

“Not tonight,” John murmured in response, feeling suddenly fatigued, his thoughts pulling towards the ideal comforts of his bed and good rest.

And that was all that needed to be said.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the prologue. More to come.
> 
> Karma makes me happy. Comments make my day. Feel free to leave something.


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